Two way mirror
by Lothiriel84
Summary: "It is said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. In Jane's case, they were more like a two-way mirror." - Written for kathiann in the Paint It Red 2012 Gift Exchange. Inspired by her prompt: "I saw you through the window". A huge thank you to my wonderful beta-reader: tromana.


**Two-way mirror**

It is said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. In Jane's case, they were more like a two-way mirror.

Since he was young – playing the boy wonder at the carnival – he had learned to see without being seen. He could read other people's souls, while his own remained carefully hidden behind the mask of his cheerful smile.

That's how he was able to con marks. At first, it was under the supervision of his father, then as a free agent, his label became that of a so-called psychic.

Even though he knew there was no such thing as psychics.

The only person who could see right through him back then, despite the invisible barrier he put between himself and the rest of the world, was Angela. Somehow she was able to catch a glimpse of his true self. That was enough to make him wish he could open up to her.

He didn't need to wish though, for she understood all the same.

On their wedding night, before she allowed him as much as a taste of her lips, Angela prompted him to sit down beside her on their bed and took a good look into his eyes. They sat still for a long while with her gentle hand resting on his cheek, her hazel eyes never leaving his own. He shivered under her intense stare, yet didn't draw back.

In the end a soft smile played on her lips and she nodded her approval.

Then her arms wrapped around his neck and any coherent thought instantly fled from his mind.

(He can still remember every small detail about _that_ night. How she smelled, the way her velvet skin felt under his touch, the look of sheer bliss in her beautiful eyes...)

...

Another person he allowed to see his soul was his little daughter.

Charlotte had such a gift; she could make people melt just with a smile. As guarded as his father had always been, he couldn't help showing his affection for the lovely angel who brightened every single day of his life.

Sometimes she sat on his lap and simply stared into his eyes. Then her slender fingers would trace the lines of his face, from his brow down his nose and to his jaw.

"Love you, daddy."

And then, he would have to bury his face into her sweet-smelling hair to hide his eyes brimming with tears.

...

When his most precious family was taken away from him, his eyes turned more like smoked glass. Grief and guilt engulfed him like thickening darkness.

He shut out the rest of the world and hid his feelings from everyone.

Now, it was really as if he was standing on the other side of the two-way mirror of an interrogation room. No one could see him as he watched and listened, all the while plotting his own revenge.

(He was constantly aware of a pair of honest, caring eyes that kept on staring at him, desperately trying to see through the mask of a jester he always wore. This fact almost hurt him, yet it wasn't enough to make him shed his carefully constructed disguise.)

He even enjoyed doing his job sometimes. Reading suspects like books, and scheming to catch them red-handed. It was kind of fun, he had to admit that.

Besides, he could always read his own colleagues.

There was pretty, credulous Van Pelt and her faithful dog Rigsby. Then there was Cho, with his poker face and his super-cop attitude. And last but not least, senior agent Teresa Lisbon.

The one and only.

Lisbon was his best friend, sort of, anyway. She was translucent, but not transparent.

Pushing her buttons was one of his favorite games. It was so very easy to annoy her, but a bit more difficult to make her smile.

Sometimes he even wondered how it would be if he could be completely honest with her. He wondered what would happen if he wore his heart on his sleeve, but only for her to see it.

The thought intrigued him. It was a welcome distraction during the long, sleepless nights he spent on his makeshift bed in the attic.

...

There were also times when his mask momentarily fell and his soul laid bare for the briefest of moments.

When Kristina Frye told him she had spoken with his dead wife.

Each time Red John slipped right through his fingers.

Every time Lisbon was in danger.

His eyes were just like normal windows then. They showed his sadness, his anger, or sheer panic instead.

He simply couldn't help it. Even he was only human, after all.

...

He could bet that his eyes were crystal clear when he crawled his way under the benches and popped out behind Lisbon's back in that church.

The glee he felt in his heart was so much it overflowed. It was a fountain of mirth that could be enough for half the people living in California.

Lisbon was there.

_His Lisbon. _

For a moment even his wild plan to catch Red John took a backseat to his fondness for the woman.

Six months and now he was there. A few inches away from her, exactly where he was supposed to be.

(The fact that just a few hours ago he was holding a woman that Red John had sent to him didn't matter. It didn't matter at all.)

...

He had no idea of what his eyes looked like the time he followed her into her office, wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly.

No idea at all of how much they gave him away when he took a step back from her and some hasty words escaped from his mouth.

"Good luck, Teresa. Love you."

(Those few words echoed into his mind for hours after he had spoken them. He was in love with Teresa Lisbon, and he'd told her so. That wasn't supposed to happen. Never.)

...

When they finally caught Red John – Susan Darcy the one to fire a bullet right into the serial killer's head – he felt like someone watching out of the window when it was raining.

Everything was a blur; tears rolled down his cheeks like raindrops on a window pane.

He guessed rather than saw whose arms were holding him so tightly.

"It's okay, Jane. It's over. You're going to be alright."

Her soothing voice almost lulled him to sleep. He shut his eyes and forgot about the rest of the world.

There was just the two of them; the warmth of her embrace was well worth the fact that, for the first time, he had allowed her to see him crying.

...

Their eyes locked together the moment they entered the spartan motel room.

She wasn't complaining anymore, not like she had done during their entire journey to Vegas.

He eased her onto the bed and then laid down beside her. His fingers played with the buttons of her shirt.

When her hands cupped his face, the wedding band he'd slipped on her finger only minutes earlier felt so smooth and cool against his skin.

"Don't leave me. Never leave me, Teresa."

Her warm gaze searched his eyes for a moment.

"You idiot; why do you think I agreed to flee with you and elope?"

"A man can never know for sure."

"By the way, _you_ are the one who's going to explain this to our team and to my brothers tomorrow."

"Your wish is my command, ma'am."

And he resumed kissing her, taking in even the slightest details about the way she tasted and smelled. Orange and cinnamon and the chocolate she'd indulged in before their wedding.

Her eyes were of the most beautiful shade of green he'd ever seen.


End file.
